Revelry
by blackwolfmajik
Summary: The Archdaemon is dead, the Blight is thwarted and Ferelden is secure - but some factions are not in the mood for celebration... (no showcased pairing, but implied) One-Shot, rated T for safety.


**Dragon Age: Origins – Revelry (implied F!Warden & Alistair T.)**

**Soundtrack: **_Fight Club (Assassin's Creed III) _– Lorne Balfe

****AN:** Insert standard disclaimer here – I own nada!

Had this sitting on the back shelf for a few years actually, figured that age wasn't going to make it any better so I might as well post it.

Please review!

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**_Revelry_**

The helmet's face-plate still smelled faintly of ale from its previous owner, but it hid Iryen's frown well enough.

_This_ was the Hero of Ferelden?

The woman was no more than twenty, impossibly young for one with a list of titles longer than many three times her age. Surely there was a mistake? The Magisters could not mean this petite girl-child was the fearsome warrior that had ruined more than a few critical missions.

_Untouchable_, they had said. As if there was such a thing.

Word on the street was that she was a liberator of the Elves, a slayer of dragons, and the finder of Andraste's Ashes among a list of other remarkable achievements. The most astounding claim was that she was the only Grey Warden recorded history to survive delivering a killing stroke to an Archdemon.

_The Warden_, the commoners called her, as if there were no others of her Order in the world.

Iryen scoffed. This child was no more imposing than a sapling tree. He let his eyes wander over the celebration, his attention snagged by the head table.

_Kingmaker._ Intelligence had traveled back to the Imperium leaders that the Warden was responsible for not one, but _two_ royal ascensions.

Iryen found the idea ridiculous.

The young Ferelen monarch was certainly making a fool of himself, watching the girl dance like a drowning man seeking the shore. His noble wife, chatting with her handmaidens, didn't seem to notice. Scandal would certainly be in the future.

If the Warden lived, of course.

Others at the honored table were equally strange to his discerning eye. A red headed minstrel was singing a jovial tale with a group of lute players. A dark skinned giant spoke with a curiously animated statue. An elderly woman nodded along with the music, her cheeks rosy with alcohol.

None of them appeared overly dangerous, aside from the Qunari and the Golem; yet, Iryen found himself checking them over cautiously to be sure. The Warden's companions had shared in her adventures and therefore could not be novices to battle.

Again, he turned his attention back to his mark, watching her dance drunkenly with an equally tipsy dwarf.

She _was_ pretty, in an unconventional sense. Though he preferred his beauties plump and soft, there was an indefinable spark that made her draw your notice. Perhaps a seduction ploy would be profitable, though having her unarmed and naked would make the kill almost anti-climactic.

Shifting uncomfortably in his stolen and slightly ill-fitting uniform, Iryen was essentially invisible to the reveling crowd. Taking advantage of this, the Tevinter assassin moved slowly across the room and closer to the impromptu dance floor.

The dwarf nearly turned over a table as he reeled too far to one side. She laughed a carefree and happy sound that made her seem even younger. The Warden tried to pick up her friend, without setting down her tankard, and stumbled as she lost her balance.

Iryen smirked behind his face-plate as she crashed straight into his convenient arms. Her momentum drove the two of them up against an oaken pillar.

_All too easy._

_*thunk*_

He blinked as the smooth sensation of sliding his dagger into her stomach didn't happen.

Confused, Iryen dropped his gaze down and saw that his weapon had been neatly captured in the tankard, rendering it useless. Less than a heartbeat later he felt the nettle prick of a blade at his throat.

She leaned up to him, as if to give him a kiss. "One would think the Imperium would have learned by now."

The assassin shifted slightly and the bite at his neck became a sting. Fire snaked into his blood that spoke of a poison beyond his experience. "Moving is not recommended, little bird."

Iryen settled, his mind spinning desperately.

Her sigh wreathed him in the scent of fine food, and not a drop of alcohol.

It had all been a ruse.

He was an idiot.

He was _dead_.

"How long—"

An eyebrow quirked at the edge of his vision. "I have been waiting for you to move for nearly two weeks. You were more patient than a lot of the others." She tilted her head, considering. "Do the Magisters not tire of sending fledgling assassins?"

He grimaced, not liking to be so easily discounted. He looked down to glare and was suddenly struck by how dark her eyes really were. His training screamed that this was dangerous, but for a heartbeat he paused.

She sighed again, as soft as a lover, before stepping away from him. Her smile was faintly sad. "Enjoy the party, little bird."

He watched her move backwards until she was beside the reeling dwarf again, not once slipping or missing her step, despite the obstacles in her way.

"Ahh, my lovely Warden is such a forgiving sort."

Iryen felt something cold slide between his ribs; his arms fell nerveless to his sides.

"I, however," the infamous roll of an Antivan accent purred in his ears, "am not."

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**AN:** Some of the wording is still bothering me, but I think the bones are good.


End file.
